Manning, Lady Palsworthy’s nephew, a tall young man of seven-and-thirty with a handsome, thoughtful, impassive face, a full black mustache, and a certain heavy luxuriousness of gesture. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. What she admired in her man was his resolute defense of his opinions. She’s so embarrassed about it that she only wears one-piece swimsuits when she tans outside. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. She could accord her father with one grace: he was not in any manner a hypocrite.
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